


Hannibal snippets

by northern



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M, Snippets, content notes above each snippet, random word prompts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-04
Updated: 2017-07-28
Packaged: 2018-07-20 02:51:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 28
Words: 18,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7387618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/northern/pseuds/northern
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Found a random word generator. Quality and length varies. Unbetad.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. After the fall, Will is barely aware of what's happening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _saviour, safe, exam_  
>  Hannibal tries to take care of Will after the fall.

"You need to be still, now, and let me do this."

"No, no…" Will had to get away. It wasn't safe. But he hurt so much — more than a knife in his guts. More than watching Abigail choke on her own blood and being unable to save her. He never could; not him alone.

A fresh wave of agony burst over him as hands tried to make him roll over, lie on his back. "No!" Will drew his legs in, twisting to curl around himself. It hurt even more and he knew he was making too much noise. Daddy might wake up, and if he did, he'd get a beating. Joey'd said. "Please no," Will whispered.

"I assure you, you are quite safe," Joey said. Except it wasn't Joey's voice at all. It was Hannibal Lecter, in a place he didn't belong.

Will cracked his eyelids to confirm it, and it was Hannibal who tried to turn his body, to manipulate him into a position for an unknown purpose. His face looked drawn in the sharp lights, and Will could see they were alone together, in some huge kind of exam room. The floor had blood on it, and Hannibal was holding a syringe, tapping it.

"No. Don't." Will said it immediately, in case it might help him. It wouldn't, though. He was too incapacitated to resist, and his head swam with nausea and pain.

"Will, you need to let me tend to you. You need stitches, but before that I want to see what else, and you can't keep fighting me for it."

Hannibal put his hand on Will's shoulder and Will couldn't stop himself from making more noise, something closer to a whimper. He was weak, and in pain, and Hannibal would be able to cut him now. Keep him like Abel Gideon and eat him piece by piece. There was a massive storm of birds rising somewhere beyond the confines of the walls of the room, their wingbeats still distant, but promising to grow deafening as they sped closer.

"It's all right, Will," Hannibal's voice promised him, patting his arm slowly as the noise grew and Will strained to hear the individual voices of the birds, shrieking and calling as they engulfed the room, blotting out the light with their wings and their small bodies. So many. So loud.

"You're safe," Hannibal's voice came, barely audible over the din.

And then nothing.


	2. Hannibal has had enough of life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If you want, you could consider this an [I Sit Beside The Dark](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5496623) timestamp. Be aware that it's about suicide. It's the random word generator's fault, since it gave me:
> 
> _Drug, arthritis, roulette_

Will had looked at him with a kind of despair in his eyes as he faded into unconsciousness, an accusing vulnerability which suggested he thought Hannibal had betrayed him. And it is a betrayal of sorts. Hannibal has robbed him of their last moments together. Will is still present, on the floor, his legs half tangled with the legs of his chair because Hannibal doesn't have the strength to move him, but he's not aware of anything. It's a regret and a relief both.

The revolver is resting on the table. It has taken Hannibal a lot of precious energy to retrieve it from the hiding place Will must have thought was secure, and his hands are trembling as he inserts the cartridges he's had for years, waiting for this time. The time when he could no longer keep his promise to Will, undefined as that promise was. Hannibal knows Will is unable to see it as other than binding, and so… He watches Will's grey head, resting there close to his foot like an old watch dog sleeping at his master's feet.

There are two rounds in the barrel, one placed after the other, and Hannibal leaves the other spaces empty. Maybe the illusion of a game of risk will give Will some peace of mind. Or maybe he will rise when the stupor wears off, pick the gun up and use the second round himself. It's Will's choice, and Hannibal never could predict him. Even now.

It's difficult to manipulate the gun with his aching, swollen fingers, but Hannibal manages, checking three times that there will be no false starts, no disappointments. They have had a good life together, but Hannibal is leaving. It's been time for him to go for years, and he's lingered at Will's insistence only, until it became clear to him that Will would never consider the time to be right. Hannibal has stayed as long as he could, fought the indignities of decreasing mobility, endured the constant pain with its more and more frequent flare-ups. All for Will and for the hope that one day, Will would be able to come to terms with the inevitable.

Hannibal sighs and nudges his foot against Will's shoulder. He leaves it there, as a steadying point of contact as he leans forward over the table. He uses both his hands to aim and steady the revolver, carefully tilting his head to the side as far as he is able, to rest the cool metal against his temple.

There will be no more delays.


	3. Drunken flirting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Word prompt was _joy, flirt, bar_. I believe this covers it.

"But you don't even — AAAAAAH!"

Hannibal turns on his bar stool to see what the commotion is and sees a young man clumsily pulling his pants back up to the immediate circle of patrons' amusement, in the form of raucous laughter and a few cat calls.

"Gentlemen, keep it down!" the bartender says, although it seems clear that no one is listening.

The man, having secured his pants passably, stumbles drunkenly past the man sitting next to Hannibal and crashes into Hannibal's leg.

"Woah!" he exclaims and clutches at Hannibal's shoulder to keep upright.

Hannibal stiffens in his seat and has to work not to be pulled down onto the floor by this unfortunate person. The drunkard clings persistently, and Hannibal wonders if his hands are sticky, as they're currently grabbing onto Hannibal's linen sleeve, wrinkling it.

"Oops!" the man exclaims, turning, and Hannibal is forced to provide his lap for the man's back and shoulders or let him crash to the floor. There is no reason for Hannibal _not_ to let him crash to the floor, except he wants to get a good look at this offender, for future reference. Maybe he has a card on him, although Hannibal doubts it, given how disheveled he looks.

The man turns his face up, sweaty and slack-featured, strands of his too-long curly hair sticking to his forehead. He suddenly grins — a huge, drunken smile — and he is lovely. Despite the cheap alcohol and cheaper aftershave coming off of him in waves. Despite his abominable behavior and poor choice of friends.

Hannibal smiles a slight smile of his own and adjusts his position to take even more of the man's weight, as he is showing no signs of getting up. "You seem to have fallen into my lap," he observes.

"Hey! Hey! Will!" comes from behind them. "Get back here!"

"But I'm comfy right here," Will says, never taking his eyes off Hannibal's face. He has the look of a man who is usually not as unguarded as he is right now, drunk like this.

One of Will's companions comes around to protest. "You can't just steal him. He's a, psychocog… spycol… We're in the FBI!"

This pronouncement makes the man in Hannibal's lap look less happy. Less drunk. Hannibal puts his hand on Will's hip, so he can turn the bar stool and address Will's companion without dropping him.

"Finders, keepers is the adage, I believe."

The other man looks perplexed, in that way only very drunk people do. "I… don't think that applies," he says, then turns to Will. "Does that apply, Will?"

"Wha?" Will says.

Hannibal looks down at him again. Will really has the most amazing bone structure. It would be nice to see him sober, even if Hannibal doubts he will be as amenable to lying across his lap when he's not drunk anymore.

"Perhaps 'nothing ventured, nothing gained' would be more fitting. I would like to take you home for the evening. Or if that seems too fast for you, some way to contact you, to meet again. Under more sober circumstances."

Will laboriously heaves himself to his feet, mashing his face into Hannibal's chest in the process. It is a clear indication of how delighted Hannibal is that he doesn't mind. He rummages in his pocket and produces a phone after a few tries. Unlocks it (with his thumb print, not a code, unfortunately) and hands it to Hannibal with the contact list open.

"You can put yourself in there, if you want," Will says, looking more unhappy by the second. It makes him look older than the late twenties Hannibal had guessed at first.

Hannibal ponders this while he enters himself as Hannibal Lecter. There are less than fifty contacts total in the list, and not many of them seem informal, from a first glance. Will's friend makes his way back to the rest of their circle of companions.

"You won't like me," Will continues, leaning on the bar next to Hannibal's seat. "I'm not like this."

Hannibal sends himself a message, and then erases it from Will's phone. Will in all likelihood wouldn't remember Hannibal's name even if he told him tonight. Better they make a fresh start tomorrow. After Hannibal has had the time to research the number, and the keywords Will/William, FBI and criminal psychology, which was surely close to what Will's companion was trying to say.

"Few people are like themselves at all times. I'll reserve judgment."

Will walks away without ending their conversation. Hannibal studies him as he walks. Definitely very drunk. Then Will turns back, weaves suddenly graceful around a staff member carrying a tray of drinks, and comes back to stand in front of Hannibal, too close, almost between Hannibal's spread thighs.

"What's your name?" he asks, as if unsure he asked it earlier.

"Hannibal," Hannibal replies, bemused.

"Huh," Will says, turns, and walks away again.


	4. Hannibal is some sort of historic Count and Will is a starving artist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt was _lord, offer, picture_ , so why not a historical AU thing?

There were always bad artists selling their bad art near the bridges, especially in good weather. Today held no difference. Hannibal trotted down the street from the offices of his notary and as he prepared to cross the bridge leading to the start of the winding roads up to the Keep, he saw several street peddlers take note of him and make sure their flimsy sketches were facing the right direction for him too see them, should he choose to look. He doubted most of them even produced what they sold themselves.

They knew by now not to call out to him as he rode by, so he was surprised that, as he neared the end of the bridge, he heard a man's raised voice offering him "views of the city, portraits while you wait".

"Andrew," he murmured, gesturing to the man on the horse behind him to take care of it. He had almost ridden by entirely before he glanced at the unfortunate man's wares out of curiosity, to see how truly bad they were.

It took him a few moments to rein his horse in, turn it and dismount. By then Andrew had lifted one of the propped-up drawings preparing to throw it into the river, as his men usually did when peddlers bothered him.

"Wait," Hannibal said. The sharpness of his tone froze Andrew in his tracks, the drawing still in his hands. The owner of the wares stood by, gaze flicking from Hannibal to Andrew and back again, his hands starting and interrupting a reaching movement toward his sketch, but never completing it. Good. He knew he was dealing with his betters, then, even if he was new enough to the city that he didn't recognize its protector by sight.

Hannibal walked up to Andrew and took the thick sheet of paper from his hands. The edge had torn slightly, but the design was not touched at all. A moon shone down on a part of the land Hannibal knew well. It lay outside the nearer farms and had not been used for anything for as long as Hannibal could remember. It was quagmire, mostly, and the artist must have spent some time there to make it so recognizable. The part that had caught Hannibal's eye, however, was not the familiarity. It was the strangeness.

Creatures chased one another through the landscape — strange, stag-like monstrosities, some with no eyes or skin, some with slick black feathers — all gamboling under the moon which seemed to grow larger the longer Hannibal watched it. He looked a few moments more, to take in every impressive detail, and then let his hand fall, lowering the picture. He looked at its creator.

The artist looked away, avoiding Hannibal's gaze in silence, so Hannibal looked through the rest of the sketches for sale. More twisted landscapes. Ominously rendered city buildings. Even a few portraits of people he didn't recognize, presumably because of the way they all seemed to have misshapen features, or inhuman eyes.

Hannibal had trouble keeping the disbelief off his expression. That this man had not been caught by a mob and burned for consorting with devils, or at least been shut away from the world never to see the light of day again. It was extraordinary.

"You draw these yourself?" he asked, just to make sure.

"I do. I could draw your likeness, my lord," the man mumbled, still not meeting his eyes.

"I think not."

Hannibal turned back to Andrew. "Send for a cart," he ordered. "Gather him up, along with all of his work, including what supplies and belongings he might have where he lives."

"But, my lord…" the artist began.

"You have a commission," Hannibal said, cutting him off. "A very exclusive one. I'll prefer that you spend all of your time at the Keep while you work. I don't do business with vagabonds."

He mounted again, leaving Andrew to puzzle over the logistics.

"Wait, what…?" he heard behind him as he rode away. "Who is that?"


	5. Night time pool swimming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The prompt was _curtain, night, swimming_.  
>  Post-fall. Minor suicide ideation, but it's not acted on at all.

He wakes, having dreamt of ocean waves crashing, crashing, but when he goes to the open window there is only the night lit pool below, Hannibal swimming lap after lap. The inset underwater spotlights illuminate him well enough that Will can see his face. He does a steady breaststroke, back and forth with exactly no variation. It makes him look like a machine.

Will goes downstairs and out through the open patio doors in just his undershirt and shorts. The nights are warm here, but not enough that they need to seal all doors and windows against the heat. He sits by the pool, dipping his feet in the water, which is pleasantly cool. Hannibal gives no sign that he's not alone anymore — just keeps on swimming. This is not the first night in this new house Will has woken from dreams and found Hannibal already gone from the bed, but it's the first he's found him in the pool.

"So, not just for decoration, then," he says.

Hannibal keeps swimming.

Will is still sleepy. It hadn't really been a nightmare, even if water has definitely featured more in the more frightening parts of his dreams since their insane escape from death and the law.

"Did you dream?" he asks, because Hannibal may not have been as lucky. Will knows now that Hannibal is more human than he would like to present himself as, with dreams and desires like any other man.

Hannibal finally stops swimming, moves to the edge and places a wet hand on Will's thigh to steady himself. He's likely doing it to irritate, but Will doesn't mind. It's not as if he's wearing a suit, and even then, he's not like Hannibal to make a fuss about his appearance at all times.

"It's early," Hannibal says, and his voice sounds as if he's not spoken for weeks, instead of hours.

"Where were you just then?" Will asks. "Far away? Long ago?"

Hannibal heaves himself up to sit naked next to him on the edge, close enough that Will is getting wet. He sighs. "In a dark lake. Not so many years ago, but long enough if that is how you measure it."

Will thinks about the pool where Hannibal almost died, the sea where both of them _should_ have died… He doesn't know about a dark lake.

"Will you tell me?"

This is something new between them. Will has traveled far to learn about Hannibal's past, his nature, but it has rarely been with Hannibal giving him knowledge through words, unless they were veiled in many layers of metaphor and half truth. But now, sometimes if he asks, Hannibal will simply tell him.

"It seemed almost untouched, this dark, deep lake. It was surrounded by dense forest, and a stream fed it, a gentle flow of water, the ripples from it smoothing out the further from shore I got. I waded as far as I could, but the bottom dropped away very soon, and I couldn't see through the water to tell how deep it really went. I swam out to the middle of the lake — it wasn't far — and then I floated there, and thought of nothing. It was very cold. October. I couldn't stay for long, or I would have just sunk below the surface. Floated there until some fisherman found me." Hannibal gathers himself to rise. "I didn't stay."

"You didn't," Will agrees. "But you went back there tonight. How come?"

He sits there on the edge as Hannibal stands above him. Hannibal puts his hand on Will's head and buries his fingers in it. "I woke already there," he says, tugging lightly. "I wished to stay, for a little while longer, and swimming in the pool made it easier."

Will nods, pulling against Hannibal's grip. These night time conversations sometimes feel unreal, but the twinge in his scalp makes him focus. "Come back to bed?" he asks, searching Hannibal's eyes for any mood shifts.

Hannibal only studies him for a moment, then lets his hair go and offers his hand to help Will up.

Will takes it.


	6. Walking in Springfield, Missouri

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The prompt was _golf, aquarium, donkey_ and I had no idea what to do with that, so here's some fairly OOC Hannibal and Will trying to walk to Mizumono Garden, from the wrong direction. I've been there, but it was some years ago. I pulled up Google Earth for fun.
> 
> And now I want pizza, dammit!

"I must admit, this is not the most picturesque of footpaths," Hannibal said.

The sun beat down on them as the cars rushed by. Will sweated, despite his loose clothing. Missouri was just too hot in the summer. Meanwhile, Hannibal managed to look pristine as always in his linen suit. He looked dangerously out of place, strolling along West Sunshine Street on the brown grass and the occasional narrow strip of 'sidewalk'. Will walked closest to the road, hopefully balancing out their combined image.

"I'm not the one who insisted on a walk," Will said. They'd already passed a Pizza Hut and a Subway, and Will's stomach grumbled.

"You could view it as a constitutional. We can't spend our days and nights in locked hotel rooms, or driving."

Will thought Hannibal must be desperate indeed to think of walking along endless traffic, breathing in the fumes, as anything approaching constitutional, but he held his tongue and trudged on across an even broader road. A bar was coming up, and he briefly wished for less exacting company, to go inside and sit alone in air conditioning with a cold beer. Maybe some chicken wings.

He should have eaten more at breakfast.

***

Eventually, they saw signs informing them of something called _Mizumono Japanese Stroll Garden_.

"Is that what you were aiming for?" Will asked, tugging on his shirt to create more moving air. The breeze was almost nonexistent, and he'd started having longing thoughts about water fountains and ice cream courts about a mile back.

Hannibal consulted his phone. "I may have underestimated the distance," he admitted.

Will side eyed him. "Have you ever been there?"

"Not as such, no."

Which might mean he'd looked it up on Google, like normal people did for a change.

Will waved his hand at the other cluster of signs, welcoming families to more weekend activities. "Are you sure it's worth it? My favorite things do not include golf and itinerant aquariums, whatever that means."

Hannibal studied the sign. "Possibly it's here for the weekend. There also seems to be a petting zoo, see?"

Will closed his eyes. It felt good to get away from the glare of the sunlight. "Can we just go back?" he asked, hearing the whine in his voice but too tired to care very much.

Hannibal scanned their surroundings and looked at his phone again, turning to the west. "We'll take a break before we go back," he said decisively. "There is a place that sells pizza just a few minutes that way. We can buy something to drink."

"And also pizza," Will said.

"Let's get going," Hannibal replied, avoiding a clear-cut denial.

After a few minutes, Will could see the Domino's sign clearly. He laughed. This was not how he'd imagined life on the run with Hannibal, but getting to see Hannibal force himself to eat pizza he hadn't made himself would be priceless.


	7. A dog died. Hannibal isn't sure what to say about it.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some kind of season one AU, clearly. Sorry, one of Will's dogs has just died in this one. It's not on-screen, but still. Also, Hannibal's quote is from George Eliot.
> 
> The prompt was _general, cheque, park_

Will kept standing by the chair he normally occupied in Hannibal's office, despite Hannibal's gesture inviting him to sit down. Hannibal stood by his own chair, patiently waiting as Will looked away toward the windows, clearly not entirely present.

"May I suggest a walk instead of a normal session?" Hannibal finally said.

"What? Yeah. Sure." Will turned back to the door he'd come from, before Hannibal gently turned him toward the exit instead with a touch to his elbow.

Will's degree of distraction was interesting. Hannibal locked the door to the waiting room, retrieved his coat and gloves and followed Will out to the street where he stood waiting in his unbuttoned coat. Hannibal finished securing his own coat and started walking toward the end of the street, where there was a small neighborhood park, reserved for residents of the area. Hannibal paid the annual fee for non-residents gladly, although he rarely found occasion to use it.

He could hear Will following in his wake, but there was no attempt to catch up to him and walk beside him. Hannibal allowed this until they reached the iron wrought gates that marked the edge of the park, where he waited for Will before he entered the code and opened the gate, ushering him inside before letting it clang shut behind them.

Will stopped again just inside on the gravel path, just standing, seemingly taking in the branching paths leading further into the park. Hannibal doubted he was paying that much attention. Thankfully the park was empty at this hour; March was not the ideal month for recreational strolling about.

There was a bench just a slight distance from the entrance, after a bend in the western branch of the path, and Hannibal guided Will there, hemming him in with what was amusingly enough approaching sheepdog tactics until they were both seated on the cold metal. Will had yet to speak a single word since they had left his office.

"You seem to be in a state of general distraction," Hannibal said. "May I ask if there's a reason?"

Will finally turned toward him, and the sadness in his eyes was palpable, making Hannibal wonder how he'd missed it.

"Will, what has happened?" Hannibal would have liked to take Will's hand, to call forward more emotion with perceived comfort, but their relationship had not yet progressed to a degree where that would have seemed natural to a physically skittish person like Will. He had to settle for a sympathetic tone and changing his posture to seem more receptive.

"One of my dogs died," Will finally said. "Sadie. She was old, and there was little else to do, but… It was today. I brought her to the vet and said goodbye."

"'Our dead are never dead to us, until we have forgotten them.'" Hannibal had little use for pets, personally, but they were very important to Will, and as such deserved some consideration as long as he wanted to keep having conversations with him.

Will hummed noncommittally, looking down at the checked pattern of the tiles around the bench.

"Did you stay with her?" Hannibal asked, which seemed like a relevant next question.

Will turned his head away, so maybe it hadn't been. "No," he finally said, and it sounded as if Hannibal had arrived at his goal after all. There were tears in his voice. "I couldn't. It's so drawn out."

Maybe he would be able to get away with a hand on Will's shoulder. He placed it there, firmly, but not too firmly. Not the masculine, reassuring slap, but something a little bit softer.

"There is something to be said for a quick death," he said. "Instant. Or there is always morphine — I do have it, and I'm very competent with a needle."

Will turned back to him in a quick motion, shaking off his hand. "What, so next time one of my pets is dying, I should just bring it to you so you can wring its neck for me?"

Hannibal studied him. There were no tear tracks on his face, but his eyes seemed more liquid than normal. He was upset, certainly, but it was unclear whether is was just the death or Hannibal's words. "If you'd like," Hannibal offered, interested to see if Will would grow more agitated or tearful at the thought.

Will looked at him.

Hannibal looked back.

Will sighed, and leaned back against the backrest of the bench. "Maybe I will. It couldn't be worse."


	8. Hannibal smells pears where there are none

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt was _sardine, prison, aroma_

"Lunch," the warden said, stopping a few feet away with the covered tray in her hands.

"I must decline today," Hannibal said, not moving away from the slot in the barrier.

The warden stared at him, unimpressed. "Skipping meals isn't healthy for you."

"Neither is ingesting poisoned sardines."

"Poisoned…" She looked at the air holes in the barrier and the covered tray, clearly measuring the distance.

"There are many more practical ways to kill me than with an overdose of chloral hydrate. I suggest you choose another."

She narrowed her eyes. "No one is trying to poison you, Lecter!"

He raised his eyebrows. "I disagree. There is a certain aroma of pears. The contrast with the sardines is… unpleasant."

She set the tray down, unwilling to take his word for it, and lifted the cover. Lunch was, indeed, sardines, and it was clear there were no pears on the plate. Eyeing him suspiciously, she lifted the plate and sniffed it cautiously, set it down again.

"I'll come back later," she said and carried the tray out again.


	9. Domestic, with dog collecting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt was _rib, laxative, radiator_ if you can believe it. I actually downloaded a trial copy of the book mentioned for this.

The third time Will brought an injured dog home, Hannibal capitulated and bought a copy of _Miller's Anatomy of the Dog_. He had a basic understanding, of course, but there were subtleties he didn't want to miss if he was going to be called upon to assist Will is his apparent quest to rehabilitate every sorry-looking mutt they came upon.

When he came home again, Will was cooing over the wary animal, coaxing it to lie down next to the radiator intended for wet outerwear in the mud room. He'd made quite a little nest for it with blankets and one of the throw pillows from their bedroom, Hannibal couldn't help but notice. The other two dogs were looking on through the dog gate in the doorway, barely containing their excitement. They whined quietly, turning their heads to look up at Hannibal, then Will and the newcomer, then Hannibal again, as if they thought he'd do something about the situation.

"Do you need anything?" he asked Will, taking care not to shout.

"Could you let Essie and Oscar into the yard?" Will called softly back. "I need to stay here for a bit."

Hannibal let them out through the front door. They were a little reluctant to go, but better they run some of their nervous energy off outside, where they wouldn't bother anyone. After that, he made some tea and settled in to study at the dining room table, where he would be close enough to hear it if Will needed him. It took the better part of an hour, but eventually Will came out to join him, sitting down heavily in the seat across.

"Some fucker kicked her in the ribs," he said and laid his head down on his arm, "and fed her some laxative or something. Maybe he thought it was poison." He looked exhausted.

Hannibal had gotten to the part about intestine, which contained little that he hadn't already picked up from other sources. Still, the material was fairly well organized.

"Would you like some tea?" he suggested, setting the book aside.

"Yeah, okay."

While Hannibal made tea for Will, making him a cheese and ham panino in the sandwich grill while he was at it, he thought about ways to ensure that they encountered fewer abused dogs. Some seemed more feasible than others, but it would be worth it to consider them all if they were not to be smothered in dog fur.

Will wolfed the sandwich down, suggesting that he hadn't eaten lunch. Hannibal ought to keep a closer eye on him. As he sipped his tea, Will pawed at Hannibal's study material.

"What's this?" he asked.

"An anatomy guide," Hannibal replied. "A canine one."

Will nodded and flipped through it, glancing at a few of the pages. "It seems a bit academic for most purposes."

"I am an academic sort of person," Hannibal said, making Will smile, as he'd known he would.

"That's god's truth," he agreed and left the book alone. "I'm honestly happy I could let most of that go, but that doesn't mean other people can't enjoy it still. Read me something," he said, putting his head down on the table again, his hand cupped around the half full mug of tea.

Hannibal looked at him, his lovely Will, so at home here, so content. It made his heart burst with it, that he was allowed to fit into this life with him.

He opened his book again at the bookmark Will hadn't managed to disturb and began. "The cecum is usually described as the first part of the large intestine, but this is not true in the dog because the ileum, the terminal part of the small intestine…"


	10. Hannibal the hired killer meets ten year old Will

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt was _map, gutter, suicide_.
> 
> Slightly Léon The Professional, and slightly OOC. AU where Hannibal works as a hired killer and Will is 10 years old and wants to die.

He'd been here when the boy arrived, keeping an eye down the scope at the target area now and then, even though it was early. Hannibal liked to be early. It gave him time to himself, to go over every detail again and again until he had contingencies for all the contingencies he could imagine, which made him feel like there was nothing that could happen that would be able to prevent the certain death that was coming for the target via his sniper rifle. He'd never actually witnessed a jumper before, though.

The little wretch of a boy was inching out onto the edge of the roof, little half-choked sniffling noises escaping back over the wind to Hannibal where he sat watching. He looked no more than ten, and like no one was washing his clothes for him or cutting his hair. Maybe he was alone. Maybe whatever place he lived just didn't care. The boy must have come through the same door Hannibal had used, but his angle didn't allow him to see the sniper seated in the corner behind the ventilation shaft. Hannibal was free to study him, however, as he put his bag and glasses down on the tiles, stared for a few minutes at the edge and then slowly crept forward.

Hannibal checked his scope again. No activity, as there shouldn't be for at least half an hour yet. A jumper might change that though. If the boy killed himself soon, Hannibal would have to change his perch, to avoid whatever response personnel came looking for things he'd left behind. It would be doable, yes, but Hannibal preferred to have a more certain time frame for when he could come and go.

The boy jerked back from the edge with a strangled yelp, evidently not yet ready to let go of everything. He lifted his trembling hands to his face. Hannibal sighed.

"Are you jumping or not?" he called to him.

The boy spun around. "What?"

Hannibal gestured at his gear. "Some of us have jobs to do."

The boy wiped at his eyes with his sleeves. "I wasn't doing anything," he assured him rapidly in the practiced way of children who get into trouble more often than not.

"You came here to die," Hannibal disagreed. "This roof, however, is taken. I would prefer it if you chose somewhere else to commit suicide.

"I don't…" the boy started. "I wasn't…" Then he gave up, slumping visibly. "I'll go. Sorry."

"I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to stay a while," Hannibal said. "My work is of a nature best left undisturbed, and if you leave now, someone may come to investigate."

"But what are you…" And then the boy finally took in what he was seeing, and his eyes widened and he started to back away.

"Stop right there," Hannibal said, his tone as sharp as he could make it. "Or I will have to stop you, and you'll get your wish after all."

The boy stood there and stared at him, still as a stone.

Hannibal sighed again. "I have twenty or thirty minutes left here. After I am done, I will leave here quickly, after which you may stay or go as you please."

The boy glanced at his bag and his glasses, which were still a small distance away, near the edge of the roof.

"You may sit there," Hannibal said. And then "Go on, go sit," to finally make him move toward his belongings.

The boy sat. Hannibal looked through his scope again and consulted his map for the thirtieth time.

"Are you a hired killer?" the boy asked him.

Hannibal looked at him and the boy quickly looked away. "I am," he said, because what was the point of denying it? He was sitting on a roof with an expensive sniper rifle, waiting.

"Who are you going to kill?"

"No one you know, I assume."

"I could know him," the boy persisted. "I might."

"And if you did, were you hoping to convince me not to?"

"No that's fine," the boy said.

Hannibal blinked. "That's fine?" he repeated. "You don't know anyone you'd prefer to keep alive?"

"No, it's okay. I don't have any family." He'd put his glasses back on. They were missing their nosepads but looked otherwise serviceable. He'd taken a book out from his bag. "Can I help?"

Hannibal blinked again. "First you want to die and now you want to kill. Which one is it?"

"I just…" The boy looked back at him again. "It could be cool, I guess? Taking out bad guys?"

The delusions of children. Had he ever been that young? "You may sit and you may read if you like and that is the extent of the help you'll provide."

"Okay," the boy said.

A minute or two passed in silence.

"Do you need an apprentice?" the boy asked diffidently.

Hannibal consulted his watch. Ten minutes.

"What I need, at the moment, is to concentrate. If you could read your book until I'm done, please?"

"Okay."

Hannibal settled in with the scope. The car might be early.

"If you need an apprentice, like with ninjas, you could take me with you."

"If you're very silent until I've finished my job, I might consider it," Hannibal said without taking his eyes from the target area. It was a small risk. The boy had already proved himself incapable of keeping his mouth closed.

It took seven more minutes, and then the car was pulling up and Hannibal's world narrowed to this one task.

Afterwards, the boy was still silent, staring at him with huge hopeful eyes while Hannibal quickly and efficiently dismantled and stowed his gear together. When he was ready to leave, he paused, considering. It would be madness, but still.

He'd worked alone for many years, and his life was well ordered, just as he liked it. There was no room for a child in his line of work, and the boy's naive dreams about apprenticeship would soon be crushed. There had to be reasons why he came up here in the first place. Being manipulated into a life of killing might not improve that frame of mind.

But still.

"Come on then, let's hurry," he said.


	11. This is Will Graham's design (and I mean it)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt was _masking tape, wealthy, model_ and it turned into a little bit of comedy, and also handwaving for how fashion shows work, because I have no idea. Oh, and blood. Quite a lot of it.

Hannibal was walking through the behind the scenes of the fashion show, enjoying his sponsor privilege. It was nice to enjoy the anticipation in the air without actually having to rush around changing clothes like he'd done when he was young. Several of the designers were quite futuristic this season, but as always, no two lines were similar enough to be confused with one another. The designers were too interested in their own uniqueness to risk that. Still, he did a double take when a model made his way to the washstands, furious, with a placating friend in tow. His whole side looked covered in blood.

Hannibal drifted closer, curious.

"I just couldn't," the model complained. "It's actually actual blood. I can't stand it!"

He started to run cold water into the deep sink, rinsing some of the blood off his arm. Hannibal thought it did smell like actual blood. How innovative.

"You've burned your bridges with him now, though." the friend commented, helping the model take his top off. In any other circumstances, Hannibal might have enjoyed the sight, but as it was he was mesmerized by the blood and the way it dripped messily into the sink and onto the floor in equal measure.

"I don't care! Do you know what he said when I protested after he poured that stuff onto me? Do you?"

"No, what was it?"

"This is my ~design~." The boy drew the word out ridiculously. "Like, what the fuck?"

"Like, that's pretty fucking obvious, yeah," the friend said, grabbing the paper towels next to the sink and starting the process of trying to make his friend not look like a crime scene. It would be slow going.

There was a new commotion as a frazzled assistant was going through the crowd shouting. "An extra! We need an extra male model right now. I don't even care, just give me someone!"

The models all around this section were already in their makeup and starting to get into their clothes. No one seemed inclined to give the assistant what she wanted. The two boys by the wash stand turned demonstratively away, backs radiating hostility, so Hannibal assumed this was said designer's assistant, looking for a replacement.

The woman threw up her hands and turned around, almost running into Hannibal where he stood.

"My apologies," he said, aware that his privilege did not extend to getting in the way of people doing their jobs.

"No, wait, what?" the assistant said, looking him over, taking in his well cut suit. She tilted her head, looking at him in that measuring way he'd almost forgotten. "You're not here to model," she stated.

"I'm not," Hannibal agreed.

"But…" She seemed to collect herself. "Are you by any chance free to come walk in Will Graham's show? You're not what we usually use, no, but we could move some things around and make it work. I don't even care if you have experience. We just need one more body. It's easy, just look at the others and walk."

Hannibal almost smiled at her desperation. It had been decades since he was on the runway, and his body was… not awful, no, but a far cry from the way it had looked when he was in his prime. The model business was merciless. If it was Will Graham, though… He should have guessed who used the blood. At least there would be no chance of any very revealing garments.

"I'd be delighted," he said, too curious to say no.

The woman almost collapsed in relief, but turned quickly and dragged him along, back through the crowd toward the section at the very back. The smell of blood grew stronger the closer they got, but Hannibal didn't see any of Mr Graham's models. A fellow donor waved at him as he was handed off to another assistant, though. She looked puzzled as he was whisked away behind the screens of Will Graham's preparation area.

The smell was even more overwhelming here. Hannibal didn't think he'd ever been close to that much of it. Mr Graham must have had vats of it brought in. It was hard to tell by smell alone where the blood came from, but it was not fake at least. He could tell that.

The assistant made short work of most of his clothes, pursing his lips as he looked him over.

"The vest, right?" the woman who'd recruited him called over to them and the man lifted his hand in response without turning around.

They put him in dust gray pants which looked vaguely Japanese with the volume of them, belted high in the waist with swathes of cloth, and indeed, a vest.

"We're going to pour blood over one side of you," the assistant told him, most of his attention on trying to do something with the drape of the belt, "so you'll need to be careful."

"Seems interesting," Hannibal commented.

The assistant smiled suddenly. "Oh yeah," he said. "We have extra time for them to mop the runway after."

After Hannibal was turned over to hair and makeup with the words "Do something," the artist stared at him for thirty seconds, then shrugged and did what Hannibal suspected was something close to the bare minimum. There was very little time, as he discovered when he stepped behind yet another screen into the corridor where the models waited, ready to start. Will Graham himself was in an alcove with, as Hannibal had predicted, a vat of blood. By now he was covered in it, eyes shining with a fervor that looked rather becoming on him.

"Last one?" he said, waving Hannibal over. "Oh! Huh." He looked at Hannibal for so long that Hannibal wondered if he might recognize him, either from some specialized interest in watching old fashion show footage from Germany or from his business, but then his face took on more of a determined cast. "Yes," he said. "Yes, that works." He looked around, finding the alcove empty but for himself and models. "Someone come do the tape!" he shouted.

Yet another assistant ducked in through a flap in the screen wall on the other side, tape in hand. She looked almost entirely free of blood, and approached them ready to do whatever Mr Graham needed.

"That side," Will indicated with bloody hands, without touching him. "Straight line from the shoulder — get a stripe of the vest for the blood."

The girl stepped up to Hannibal and carefully marked his vest with broad masking tape, protecting it but for the inch of fabric closest to his bare arm. Then she patted his chest, smiled and stepped away, and Mr Graham beckoned him closer.

"Stop there," he warned. "No blood anywhere but where it's supposed to go."

Looking at Graham, drenched in blood which was clotting in stages in his hair and on his skin, his clothes dark and sodden with it, Hannibal couldn't help but smile a little.

"Yeah, yeah, very funny. Now stand still."

Mr Graham dipped a jug into the vat and then carefully poured lukewarm blood over Hannibal's shoulder, making sure it ran down to coat the bare skin of his arm. Then he got more to drench the pants leg on the same side, smearing some of it into the cloth with his hands until he was finally satisfied, stepping back.

Hannibal didn't need a mirror to know what he looked like. "Beautiful," he said in a solemn voice.

Will Graham stared into his eyes and nodded. "It is. Now get into the line. Someone will get the tape for you."


	12. Freddie Lounds writes about the people in the previous snippet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I got _photograph, spring, headline_ , which made me think of gossip.

**Out And About**  
_[Candid photo of Will Graham and Hannibal Lecter having coffee at an outdoor café, talking animatedly]_

Eccentric mega-designer Will Graham was once again seen with maybe-not-so-ex model Hannibal Lecter, spending leisure time together. The two have been spotted in each other's company several times now, since Lecter unexpectedly walked in Graham's spring line fashion show, making a big splash in the fashion pond with his unique rugged look. This reporter can only speculate, but it seems as if these two weirdos might be involved.

Graham is currently designing the costumes for coming blockbuster movie Hassun starring Beverly Katz, and sources reveal that Hannibal Lecter might have been added to the cast as well. It certainly pays to know people! Hannibal Lecter must have impressed Graham and the director of Hassun both.

-for the Tattler  
Freddie Lounds


	13. Freddie doesn't give up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Freddie, looking for Hannibal and Will (no connection to the Freddie in the last chapter). Prompt was: _bandit, miser, report_.

Freddie had tried to get travel expenses through, she had, but Hannibal news simply weren't as hot anymore. So here she was, stuck in her hot bedroom with her laptop open and the fan on high.

She scrolled through yet another report of people cut down by bandits in the rural hills of Argentina. Those sort of things always seemed promising. Argentina seemed like such a logical choice for them, and she was sure Hannibal and Will would both love working with machetes. There was no fast way of checking through with the local police, though. She wrote them an email, but things always went better if she called them. They seemed a bit tired of her emails.

Wait, here was something interesting — a corpse found in Latvia with an artfully draped piece of cloth, inscribed with what looked like Latin. [...sericordia m…] had to be _misericordia mea_ , but the picture didn't focus on the writing and there looked like there might be more of it. Freddie kicked her sheet off the bed. The back of her neck was sweaty and her scalp itched from the heat. Another cool shower, and then trying to find which contact might get her better pictures, and maybe access to the file.


	14. Fluff, then a misstep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aw, I'm sure they'll get past it.
> 
> Prompt: _spirit, mulberry, cider_. Fluffy berry picking, but then someone says the wrong thing.

"I haven't picked mulberries since I was a boy," Will said, smiling. "What made you think of it?"

Hannibal could have told him that he'd mentioned his love of mulberries months ago and that it was a rare thing that he forgot what Will told him, especially about things he had an emotional response to. "No particular reason," he said instead. "The cultivation was close by, and they weren't fully booked."

Will looked over at the other pickers, hand shading his eyes. They were couples and families mostly in t-shirts and old jeans, exchanging money for crates at the small stall at the entrance to the orchard.

"So that's why you dressed down. You almost never do." He sounded as if Hannibal in these cast-offs, bought especially for this day from a charity, was a rare treat.

"Will you mind getting your clothes stained?" Hannibal asked.

"I'm good. This is fine," Will said dismissively.

He hadn't let Hannibal buy as many of his clothes for him as Hannibal would have liked to, and as a result, most days saw him in drab pants and wrinkled, loose shirts. And who was to blame Hannibal if he'd made sure the only things available for Will to wear today were the sorriest garments he owned. Maybe after today, Will would finally let him throw them away.

They got their own two crates, which Hannibal lined with plastic and cloth to protect against berry juice, and found themselves a free tree. Several groups of people were shaking the trees for their fruit, but Hannibal wanted to bruise the mulberries as little as possible.

"When you were a boy," he asked, "did you climb the trees and eat every berry you picked?"

"I'd sit there for hours," Will agreed, grinning. "I'd even eat the unripe ones and get a stomach ache."

Hannibal smiled. "And was that all you got? Unripe mulberries are said to cause hallucinations."

"Well I don't think I hallucinated back then, but I guess I could have. I don't remember."

"You don't seem dismissive of the idea, though."

"Why do you ask? Are you saying you've used unripe mulberries as a hallucinogen, on patients?"

"I was merely curious," Hannibal said. "Would you get me that ladder, please? I would like us to hand pick these, very carefully."

Will narrowed his eyes at him, but went to get the ladder. Hannibal busied himself setting out the crates in the shade. They wouldn't stay for more than an hour or two, but it would be good to keep the berries in as good condition as possible before transporting them back home. He had tentative plans for a fortified cider, unless Will ate too many. Will's taste in alcohol ran to whiskey or, in fact, anything that would get him drunk as fast as possible when he was upset, and as a result Hannibal was on a mission to vary his intake with less potent alternatives. A cider would do nicely, as long as he took care not to make it too sweet. It wouldn't be what they usually drank, but still a sweet reminder of summer days after a few months of storage.

They took turns standing on the ladder, methodically going through the lower branches and then the ones higher up. Will did, as Hannibal had predicted, soon stain his mouth red with juicy berries. It made Hannibal think of sweeter things still.

"Are you familiar with the story of Pyramus and Thisbe?" he asked.

"Star-crossed lovers, tragic death in ancient Babylonia." Will had given up on keeping his shirt clean and was now using it as a makeshift basket, dropping berries one by one into a fold.

"The original Romeo and Juliet, most people say. Death because of a misunderstanding."

"And the blood…" Will laughed, pausing and looking down at him, a fond look in his eyes. "Their blood is why we have red mulberries — I see why you thought of the story."

"I have always enjoyed reading _Metamorphoses_ ," Hannibal said. "It was one of the books I had as a child. I kept it for years, but that copy was lost. I have replaced it, of course." Still, the copy from his boyhood had been illustrated, and he had, despite careful instructions never to deface a book, secretly used his colored pencils to give more life to the black and white line drawings. It was gone now, fallen apart, or burned, or eaten by rodents.

"Yes, I saw it in the library," Will said. He came down from the ladder and unloaded his small burden of berries into the crate, sneaking one of them into his mouth.

Hannibal stopped him with a hand on his arm when Will made to go back up into the tree. "Do you have books like that?" he asked, suddenly chagrined that he hadn't offered before. "Are there books from your childhood you have yet to replace? I know of several researchers who will find and deliver what you need, or if you prefer to search yourself, there are some places in the area we could go."

Will looked at him for a moment, seemingly searching for something in his face, and Hannibal wondered if it had been the wrong thing to say. It was difficult to predict how Will would react to things, but the afternoon had been beautiful and he had thought Will would enjoy it. It had seemed as though he had been.

"You never do that," Will said, a small frown on his face.

"I never do what?"

"You don't imagine that I might be missing something and then offer to help me make it better. It's not a thing you do. Unless it's not what it seems, and you're planning something else."

It sounded plain and accusing, the way Will said it. Like an attempt to shut Hannibal into the neat little box so many people, including Will, had constructed with their petty theories of what he was made of. He had thought they were beyond that, truly.

"I think we have enough berries," he said, bending to gather up the two crates.


	15. Food critic Will and chef Hannibal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> My prompt was _parrot, herald, salad_ , which seemed at first like it would be fun, but it turned into OOC Will who hardly picks up on Hannibal's murder vibes at all. Ah well.

Will's job as a food critic had evolved from writing eulogies for the Boston Herald, to life style pieces, to finally being encouraged to do the more serious reviews of new restaurants that he'd found he actually enjoyed. It wasn't what he'd seen himself doing when he'd studied creative writing, but it was better than many other jobs he'd held (even if there was little hope of ever doing it in a form that provided him benefits) and it did offer him free food of (almost always) good quality on a regular basis. He'd developed a style of writing about food that people seemed to like, to the degree that he'd gained a small following and his public twitter account regularly showed him mentions like "@grahamcritic strikes again - read and weep!".

This is why he felt no compunctions at all about writing an absolutely scathing piece about recently re-opened restaurant _Gideon_ where he enumerated all the ways Abel Gideon's new concept was just a rehash of a concept _Mischa_ did a whole lot better. "It's as if Abel Gideon spent a few weeks eating only at _Mischa_ , and then built a collage of a menu designed with elements from Hannibal Lecter's table. The pear salad alone is an almost exact copy, just less well executed."

Brian, who did most of his editing, left him several comments which all amounted to "Are you sure this is that much of a problem?" _Gideon_ was generally well thought of in Boston society, or at least the previous version of the restaurant had been. It had done well for itself, if not as well as _Mischa_ and that level of eateries. This level of plagiarism was a little puzzling.

Two days after Will's review was published, he received a handwritten letter. It was from Hannibal Lecter, the owner and chef of _Mischa_. In beautiful penmanship, like something out of an old journal at a museum, Lecter thanked him for bringing "this unfortunate situation" to his attention and asked Will if he was free for dinner this coming Saturday, to wash the "inferior flavors" from his palate once and for all. The address given was not _Mischa_ 's location, so Will assumed it was Hannibal Lecter's home.

"It looks like a date," Brian said when he couldn't resist showing him the letter as they met up for their usual coffee date.

"It does not," Will protested. "He just wants to thank me personally. Maybe he remembers that I had nothing bad to say about him in that article last year."

"No no no," Brian said, close to spilling his overly sweet coffee drink on the letter as he pointed at a few lines, "look, he says he would like the opportunity to get to know you better. That sounds really date-y to me. In its way."

Will snatched the letter away and folded it, putting it back into its envelope. "Just because you're fixated on meeting the right person doesn't mean everyone has to be."

"Don't discount the possibility, at least," Brian said, slurping obnoxiously through his straw to get at the whipped cream left at the bottom of his drink.

"Oh come on," Will said, irritated now. "Look at him!" He showed Brian the tab on his phone open to a blog he'd found with several pictures of Hannibal Lecter being a gracious, extremely well dressed host at some charity event or other.

Brian smirked. "You keep a tab of pictures of him on your phone."

"I was doing research!" Will turned the screen off and shoved his phone into his pocket. "I do research. I have lots of things on my phone."

"If you say so."

Brian left the subject, but the curl of his smirk haunted Will all through writing his reply to Lecter that evening, thinking extra carefully about his phrasing. He did it by email, because he wasn't crazy enough to actually send a paper letter in the mail. Who did that? Except for Hannibal Lecter, apparently.

***

On Friday Will clicked on link after link, checking on Boston's food and celebrity scene to get away from writing his boring thing about the five most interesting cafés in Boston to visit this summer, when he found another piece about Abel Gideon. This one wasn't a review of his restaurant, but some kind of gossip thing, written by Freddie Lounds. Will vaguely recognized the name as someone associated with scandals. The material was scandalous indeed, and Will could feel his eyebrows rising as he read the quotes by a former employee, alleging money laundering and credit card fraud.

Maybe the owner copying a successful restaurant had been some kind of last ditch attempt to save his business. Too late now, Will thought. Abel Gideon would be lucky if he didn't end up in prison if half of this was even true. It did make Will feel a little better, though. There had been that niggling doubt that he had gone too far in his review just to satisfy his readers, but the way things looked now it had been justified and more.

When Saturday evening came, Will was more than ready for some good food and conversation. He was curious about the kind of food Hannibal would cook in his own home. The menu at _Mischa_ was always well balanced and interesting, and Will doubted he'd be served anything of less quality than that. People said that most of what came out of _Mischa_ 's kitchen was overseen by Abigail Hobbs, Lecter's protégé. Will wondered if she'd be there tonight. The letter had made it look like the dinner would be private, but it was hard to tell. Maybe there was more between Hannibal and Abigail than professional ties. If so, Brian would have to eat his "you keep pictures of him on your phone."

Will thought guiltily of the pictures that were still there, along with some others he'd found this morning — pictures of Hannibal as a young chef, learning from greater men in France. He'd looked serious and intense as a young man, as if nothing else mattered than what he had in front of him. That kind of focus was necessary for a chef with aspirations, but Will couldn't help that he felt better about the more recent ones, where Hannibal looked as if he enjoyed life a little bit more.

The cab dropped him outside a beautiful older building, welcoming with light coming from many of the windows. Hannibal Lecter opened the door smiling and insisted on taking his coat. His shirtsleeves were rolled up and he had clearly just taken off his apron.

"Feel free to join me in the kitchen," he said. "I'm almost done — just a few things to finish up."

Will felt flattered. He hadn't expected to be treated to a kitchen visit, but he sat where Hannibal indicated, suppressing his instinct to ask if there was anything he could help with. A chef of Lecter's caliber wouldn't welcome some novice's shoddy work.

Hannibal seemed to sense that his guest needed something to do, however, and provided him with conversation. "I'm happy you were able to join me," he said, glancing up from his plating.

"The pleasure is mine," Will said. "I'm not really sure what I did to deserve an invite to your home, but I was happy to accept."

"I am aware we haven't met outside the roles of our respective professions before, but as I wrote, you made me aware of an unpleasant thing before anyone else, and moreover in an elegant and flattering manner. I was interested in what kind of man you might be in a more personal setting."

"Oh, um, thank you," Will said, because there were several compliments in that statement, and he wasn't sure he deserved them. He took a sip from the glass of wine Hannibal had given him. It was excellent. "I saw the allegations against _Gideon earlier_. It seems like there was more than what I wrote about wrong with that place."

Hannibal smiled in a way that seemed more apologetic than triumphant. "I'm afraid I feel rather protective of what's mine," he said.

It took a while for Will to grasp the possible meaning of that, but then he set his glass down. "Was it you who got Freddie Lounds to dig into it?" he asked. "What does Abel Gideon himself have to say about it?"

"Oh, he hasn't been available for comment since Thursday. I have it on good authority that he was very sorry for stealing from me, though."

There was something a little strange about the way he said that, as if Hannibal had made sure of it personally. Will had strange ideas sometimes, flashes of what he imagined other people's lives and motivations to be, but he had learned to save them for his creative writing. Not that he did much of that nowadays. If he ever got around to it, he could store this idea as "The vengeful chef who tortured his rival to death".

He smiled and drank some more wine. Hannibal smiled back.

Dinner was beautiful, if slightly simpler than what was frequently served at _Mischa_ , the meat tender and the vegetables perfectly cooked. They ate in the dining room, just the two of them, and Will did get the feeling that it was possible that this was a date. Or maybe a pre-date? Hannibal was charming and good at keeping a conversation going through dessert and whiskey, and Will never felt uncomfortable once.

But then the evening drew to a close without any further indication of romantic interest. There just wasn't any focus in Hannibal's attention. He was pleasant, and the way they interacted was nice, but there was no spark, no lingering glances, and when Hannibal handed Will his coat and told him about the social circle he sometimes invited for dinner here at his home, and would it be alright if he included Will on such occasions — Will had to conclude, with a mix of disappointment and a strange sense of relief, that there would be nothing more than social interaction between them.

Not that socializing with Hannibal Lecter would be a bad thing, Will thought in the backseat of the cab. Contacts were good, and especially well known local chefs.

Still, he couldn't stop thinking of his writing idea. Maybe he would sit down and write this time, about the brutal murderer of a chef he'd thought of. He missed writing, and never following up on his ideas made those ideas appear less and less. He sighed. Not tonight, though. He'd had a good meal and close to too much to drink, and all he wanted was to sleep.


	16. religious cult in space, with murders

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The prompt was _colony, radiator, sparrow_. This one has them as leaders of a Christian cult. In space.

When technician Ogden died, that was when preacher Will Graham knew they had a problem that extended further than making sure the colony survived. The cause of death seemed to be a broken neck, but there was no way for a man walking through a regular corridor intersection to have done that to himself. There was no specialist in pathology in their community — now that Will thought about it, she had died two years ago in what had been thought an accident. Accidents had to happen in a venture as grand as this, of course, but the number of projected deaths had been nudged up to further, and then further still, until technician Ogden's death was the third this year, from a population of 314. Not half the year had passed.

"I need people to stop dying," Will said to his closest friend and fellow preacher, Hannibal Lecter. "We have enough of a problem with the criminals found guilty in God's Court."

"Those are surely two a copper," Hannibal said, calm as ever.

"Don't make light of God's words!" Will said.

"But I'm not," Hannibal said. "'And not one of them falls to the ground apart from the Father's will'. If people die, it's because they were not worth as much in His eye as others, who still live."

Will felt a little uneasy about that interpretation of Matthew, but Hannibal was often the sitting judge in God's Court and very good at bringing the words of God to life, making even the most hardened of sinners weep with their desire to repent. "But I need technicians to do maintenance on the habitat," he said, taking care not to raise his voice. This conversation was between the two of them, and God of course. "If there are no technicians, things may start to malfunction. There might be a radiation leak!"

"God will watch over us," Hannibal said. "Did he not when we broke away from Earth's stifling religious laws? Did he not guide us into this wonderful community and raise us up as leaders, helping all these people out here in the emptiness with us follow God's law?"

"He did," Will admitted. "That's true. You always did have a strong faith. I don't know what I'd do without you."

"All will be well," Hannibal said. "And if some sparrows fall to the ground in the process, it's a small matter and you shouldn't let it bother you so."

"I suppose," Will said, sighing. "It's just that it's me who has to move people around to cover for the missing workers. I don't like it."

"We should make it the subject of tonight's prayer, if it weighs on your mind."

That would definitely bring Will some relief, and hopefully the rest of their congregation as well. "Thank you," Will said. "You always know just what to say."


	17. Part of a wip where Will is a cyborg

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So today's words were _chips, tissue, formula_ , which I choose to interpret in a scientific way, and not a household/baby way. It fits right in with a wip of mine, where Will is a cyborg who keeps getting more and more replaced organs and limbs, and Hannibal is in charge of keeping him stable and integrated. I have no idea if this will ever be finished, but here's some of the start of it. I had some fun with the canon introduction conversation, as you can see.

"I wanted you to see him before you made a decision," Mr Crawford says. "I can't imagine this is your usual type of case."

Hannibal watches the man through the window of Mr Crawford's office. The pane of glass is not a one way mirror and the man sitting by the table would easily be able to see them if he turned, but he seems uninterested, listless. Uninteresting.

"I'm afraid I have rather a long waiting list for appointments, Mr Crawford."

"I am aware." Mr Crawford moves from standing beside his desk to standing very close to Hannibal, clearly in preparation for some impassioned plea or other. Hannibal looks at him. After a moment, Mr Crawford takes a step back.

Message given and received, Hannibal continues. "I would need to speak to him, to see if there is anything I can work with." Replacing damaged parts of the brain is a difficult business. Hannibal hasn't seen many people as functional as this man seems to be so soon after surgery. His hair is unevenly cut, approximately half of it much shorter than the rest. Hannibal estimates three months, unless the patient or a caretaker has shaved it off again. Although the lack of symmetric hair speaks against a current caretaker.

"He was one of my best," Mr Crawford ventures. "He's… almost the same, but I need… I need to get him more stable. More integrated." He takes a half step toward Hannibal again before he checks himself. "That is what you specialize in, isn't it, Doctor Lecter? Integration?"

"Integration and integration problems, yes," Hannibal replies absently. He doubts Mr Crawford knows what integration really means in relation to biomechatronical implants and the people who receive them. There is, however, something in the posture of the man outside the office that has changed subtly.

"I would like to meet him now," he says. This may not be boring after all. "What is his name?"

"Will Graham," Mr Crawford replies, relief in his voice.

 

***

 

"You've had trouble with taste, Mr Crawford tells me," Hannibal remarks after a few correct answers to preliminary questions about the date and weather, all delivered in a soft voice and without even a glance toward him or Mr Crawford.

"My thalamus is artificial," Will says. "It reroutes sensory input. Sometimes my thoughts leave a bad taste in my mouth."

"That's an interesting side effect. Metaphorically, I could say I experience the same phenomenon." Hannibal walks around the room, studying Will. He looks less indifferent in person than through a pane of glass.

"I've been advised to use the barrier method. 'Build a fort in your mind.' It's not very effective."

That produced a more visible reaction. Bitterness. "Perhaps you'd like to play an association game?" he suggests.

"My associations are fine!"

Defensive. Even better. Hannibal sits down at the table, taking the cup of coffee Mr Crawford has provided. He sips it. Inadequate. He tries another point of attack. "You don't like eye contact?"

That gives him a quick glance, Will's gaze sliding against his for less than a second. Hannibal feels it like a touch. Unexpected.

"It's distracting," Will says, looking off to the right again, seemingly straight into the wall. "My vision is fine, but the way it's processed… it gets tangled up with a lot of other things. It's hard to think when you look at someone and suddenly start thinking about how white the whites of their eyes are, or fixate on a burst vein. Or imagine what they'd look like dead."

Mr Crawford clears his throat, and Hannibal makes a gesture to stop him from saying anything.

"I imagine that must be distracting, yes," Hannibal says.

Will looks at him again, for longer this time. Hannibal feels unable to look away. His gaze is heavy, significant somehow. "What you see touches your other senses, leading you down different pathways than you might have chosen before your illness," he suggests, feeling almost relieved when Will lets his gaze drift away again. "Some of your associations must be shocking to your conscious mind."

"Not really," Will mumbles.

"Will has always had a… unique way of thinking," Mr Crawford adds. "That part is not new."

"If that's not new," Hannibal says, considering, "perhaps you are simply receiving more sensory impressions than before, your mind struggling to process them all in a way that feels logical to you."

"Is he here to fix me?" Will says abruptly, to Mr Crawford. "I don't need fixing. A few artificial parts doesn't make me a machine."

And there we have it, Hannibal thinks. How predictable. However, there seems to be more to this than the simple fear of becoming less than human.

"Doctor Lecter specializes in integration after procedures like the one you've gone through," Mr Crawford says, placatingly. "I just want you to feel… balanced."

Will barks a short laughter. "You may have to wait a long time for that," he says.

Watching them interact, Hannibal assumes they have history, but not years' worth of it. He will have to determine the limits of their mutual trust in one another.

"While it's true I mainly work with the psychiatry side of enhanced individuals, I would like to inform you that I also have several years of experience on the medical side of things," Hannibal points out. "I am more than fully qualified to support you in any questions or problems you might have, either regarding integration or regarding physical problems with your implants."

Will looks at him, a hint of hostility in his gaze. It is likely resentment. He will need to speak to Will away from Mr Crawford to see if the situation might be different between just the two of them.


	18. In the catacombs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm re-watching season 3. Have an ambience snippet.
> 
> Prompt: _coffin, pillar, jug_

The light was dim and flickering, no electric light allowed into this half-public resting place. A tomb for many, inhabitants spread across centuries, a few of them with no barrier at all between them and a casual viewer passing through the narrow, vaulted passages. The supports were not so much pillars as a warren of connected archways, rough with age and many layers of caulking.

"Hannibal?" Will whispered, not loudly enough for Inspector Pazzi to hear him.

He felt certain Hannibal was here, just beyond a wall or two, maybe following and keeping track of where they were, or maybe just ahead, moving into the places with no light. Will imagined rough, dark spaces, dried bodies and urns of ashes stacked in dusty heaps, no one ever seeing them in candlelight. But Hannibal might see them, with his fingers in the dark.

Will turned around another hallway, twisting back on itself. It had fewer candles lit. "Hannibal?"

He heard nothing but his own steps now, and even when he paused to listen there was only his own breath, his own body. He imagined Hannibal standing on the other side of the wall, listening as well, in stillness.

"I miss you," he whispered soundlessly, here among the dead. They would keep his secret.


	19. Will, recovering in a house by the sea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> My back is fucked up at the moment, so I can't sit and write. Have another wip snippet instead, set after the Fall.

Most of Will's memories after the fall are fragmented for weeks afterward. Hannibal somehow got them through the first few days from which Will has almost nothing — just a haze of visions he is reasonably sure has nothing to do with reality as they involve a lot of dead people doing bloody and unlikely things. There is also pain, nausea and an inability to stay conscious, which becomes more noticeable only as the days go on.

He keeps coming back to what happened by the house on the cliff. He's tried to think about it from every possible angle, but what he ends up with is always this: he took down Dolarhyde with Hannibal the way he did because it didn't matter. It was all going to be over the minute they were done, one way or the other. And then he did his utmost to make sure they all met their end together — and it didn't work.

There comes a time to stop trying to change things and accept where life has put you.

Life (and Hannibal) has put Will in a house by the sea, on the outskirts of some quiet town for foreign people with too much money. Will walks shakily around the circumference of the house every day as soon as he is able, taking the steps on the side that slopes one by one, careful and determined. Hannibal keeps away. He probably senses that his help wouldn't be welcome for this, the most basic of all things Will can imagine for himself: walking. Walking is painful, and after days and weeks of bed rest he is weak, his heart racing and cold sweat erupting every time he tries to go a little bit faster. There is a rose bush at the last corner, too large for Will to rest his hand against the house wall while going around it. By that corner he's tired enough that walking without leaning on something feels… very difficult. It is also the corner of the house closest to the beginning of the descent towards the sea. Will realizes there are yards and yards before the slope even starts to really increase, before the untidy gravel path cuts away, angling more definitely downwards, but every time he gets to this corner and lets go of the wall… It feels like the gravity warps. As if the sea draws his body, suddenly unbalanced and tilting dangerously away from the house. The vertigo makes him look firmly at the roughly paved ground, at the tufts of dry grass erupting from the cracks between the stones as if they could trip him and send him flying, his body caught up in the shifted gravity.

He limps around the corner, methodically, unblinkingly, just in case.


	20. Hannibal likes to see Will reflect him

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Words were _cope, fortune, dapper_.

"I don't enjoy this sort of thing," Will says, tugging on the hem of his tux. "It's never been my thing."

Hannibal takes his hands to keep him from ruining all his good work. "Tonight," he says, "it will be your thing."

Will twists away, but Hannibal doesn't let go, and it ends up feeling like holding a recalcitrant child. Hannibal smiles on the inside, thinking about Will as a small, mistrustful boy, forced to wear formal dress, not allowed to touch his hair. It's his own memory, of course, but Will inhabits it just as well.

"Tonight, you will do your very best, Will." He pulls him closer, touching the side of his face to Will's hair. "You will be far superior from anyone in the room, and you will be aware of this, every moment. They will drift in your orbit, fascinated."

"Ugh," Will says. He exhales sharply, still looking away, but quiescent now as Hannibal strokes Will's arms, his chest, admiring the way his clothes fit.

"You have a vast arsenal of weaponry to draw from," Hannibal assures him, brushing his fingers over Will's cheekbone, over the scar there. Hannibal worked hard on that, to minimize the scar tissue.

"You just want me to be you," Will mumbles. "You love it when there are no barriers between us."

Hannibal does smile, then, lets it show on his face. "As it should be," he agrees. "And would you enjoy it if I were to be some version of you this evening? Perhaps I'll stare into the distance at things no one else can see and make inappropriate comments about them?"

Will looks at him then, seemingly torn between taking offense and being amused. After two seconds he decides and guffaws, batting Hannibal's enclosing arms away, stepping toward the windows.

"No," he says. "It would be interesting to see, but you don't need to play the balance for me to do this. Let's both be you tonight. The scales don't have to be even."

"Think of it as a coin," Hannibal says, "or a mask. No one will see the other side of it unless you turn it over."

Will sighs. "Fine. Yes. Let's do this."

Hannibal can see him draw on things other than himself, settling into his body in a different way. A measured way, with readiness concealed beneath an inscrutable smile. Will starts toward the doors and Hannibal lays a hand on his arm, leans in and kisses him lightly.

"For luck."

"We make our own luck," Will replies and turns away smoothly, the knowledge that other men will drift along in his wake present in every line of his body.

Hannibal follows.


	21. Lord Hannibal has need of ingredients

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> My words were _distiller, ointment, Childermass Day_. I'm so sorry. Please skip this, since there is a whole lot of CHILD HARM implied.

"We have found three more," the guard announces. "Would it be convenient, My Lord…?"

Hannibal looks up from studying this year's economy of county Estary. "Yes, yes, bring them."

He puts the rolls away with care, to avoid staining them with the rich, red ointment slathered on his forearms and the backs of his hands. County Estary is doing well enough. There is no shortage of livestock in the capital, but he might use another shipment of wheat out of them before winter, now that they have slightly fewer mouths to feed.

He hears them coming before he sees them and he seats himself on his throne just in time before the doors open. Six armsmen escort three of his subjects into the great room, each holding a wailing child. To the left of the throne Will stands by the basin on its stand, his alchemical powders and unguents on the small table behind it. He nods to show that all is ready.

"The first one, please," Hannibal says, prompting the armsmen to escort their charges to Will, who is taking his coat off to avoid spattering the fine garment.

"We thank you for your sacrifice," Hannibal tells his subjects as they pass him, struggling futilely against the grip of the armsmen. "Nothing will be wasted."


	22. Will, after it all

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Hello again, my summer vacation just started and I'd like to pick this back up.)
> 
> My words were: miss, disparadised, appeach
> 
> Introspection, if Will left Hannibal and there was no happily ever after.

Creating and maintaining a false identity that would hold up to scrutiny was a lot of work, and in the end Will settled for living in an abandoned trailer outside of a small town in Canada, picking up maintenance work for cash simply by being available and cheap. It required some exposure to the townspeople, sure, but it had been years now, and the population mostly consisted of old folks whose children had grown up and left to try to make better lives for themselves. Will judged it an acceptable risk.

There were no stray dogs in town or outside of it. It felt far from everything. It was no wilderness, but the small patch of forest threatening to devour the trailer had a stream that didn't seem too polluted. Few people came there, whether because of the fact that there was nothing there except the trailer or because Will had taken to living there he didn't know. He didn't care.

He had always liked living apart. It had felt like a necessity, to have that buffer between himself and the rest of the world, as protection. For him and for them. After the heady years spent apart from it all in a different way, however, curling up under blankets in a broken trailer seemed pathetic. As if he were a wounded animal, cramming himself into the smallest space possible while he waited for his wounds to either kill him or scab over and heal.

Those were not his thoughts. Not really. Or maybe they were, no matter how hard he'd tried to disconnect from that other existence, to cut himself loose from that other half who still existed somewhere, no doubt dining on fine plates and sleeping in handwoven sheets in a beautiful house somewhere. Maybe even the same house, the white and blue house with the sunny back yard in Havana.

"Then go," Hannibal had said, and in those words echoed a finality so absolute there was no returning, even with the passport Will still had, valid for another three years.

No, Hannibal would be there, barring the way with his blades and his teeth, unless some other rich stranger had moved in as Hannibal moved on. Will didn't know what would be the worst option there if he would ever return, finding Hannibal gone or finding Hannibal just as he'd been when Will had left.

It was a futile thought. He had dropped that existence, 'Anthony' fading away on the journey over the water even though his passport still lived in Will's back pocket, curved and worn now from his body. Sometimes Will opened it and looked at Anthony, trying to see how he had ever fit into that perfectly groomed facial hair. Sometimes, he dreamed of returning and Hannibal putting an end to all of his misery. Lights out. Sometimes he woke up gasping and sweating from dreams where Hannibal made a place for him in his life again, and it was all just as before, the same dizzying dance of exhilarating violence and passion and he loved it, loved it.

He'd done this to himself. He'd torn himself apart getting away, but he'd done it, and if huddling under dirty blankets in a broken trailer with no heat was the result, it was nothing more than he deserved. The least of it, really.


	23. Pretty much just cannibals torturing people

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> My words for today were: Weedery, stancher, weigher
> 
> I chose to interpret those as a Will being fairly fine with apprenticing himself to the practice of keeping people as chattel and harvesting meat off them in a non-humane way. In other words, skip this if you don't want graphic torture.

"You cannot expect me to live as a vegetarian for half a year," Hannibal had said, as if that was the sticking point of the matter.

"Plenty of fish available on an island," Will said, although Hannibal was bound to be aware of this.

"But not much of a land animal life on this particular one," Hannibal said, "and you know how I enjoy my red meat."

Will knew.

***

The garden was in a shed they'd built together the first few days, from supplies delivered by helicopter. It was fairly weatherproof, although if they were unlucky and got a hurricane, they'd need to evacuate the plants to the dug-out cellar Hannibal had worked on for a few weeks while Will made the house habitable.

The plants. Will found it easier to think of them that way when they were out of his sight. It was still difficult for him to fully revel in torture and mutilation the way Hannibal did, but he was working on it. A certain amount of dissociation was surely forgivable in the meantime. Besides, Hannibal seemed to find it amusing.

"Hold this for me, please," Hannibal said, making room for Will to take over his grip on the clamping instrument. It was large and scissor shaped, with rough curved edges and made Will wonder if it wouldn't be more expedient to simply use a belt to constrict the blood flow, and then a sharp axe or electrical saw to make the cut. Hannibal was rarely about expediency unless his life depended on it, though. Sometimes not even then. Will chuckled to himself, and then abruptly stopped.

Hannibal glanced at him, a half smile on his face. He had one of his thin saws in his hand, obviously not sturdy enough to easily cut through bone.

"What's on your mind?" he asked, his free hand moving over the thigh, considering. "A little tighter, if you would," he added.

There was a steady noise coming from the man restrained on the table, a wordless whine of fear and misery. Will tightened the clamp. He could feel the trembling twitches reverberating through his grip and up his arm. It would take a lot, maintaining a constant pressure as Hannibal worked, but he was getting better at it. The gloves helped, and knowing now not to be so rigid in his grip that a violent spasm might make him lose it altogether.

"Just thinking," Will replied. "About how you prefer some tools to others, even when they might be less efficient."

"It's all about the sensual experience," Hannibal said, tilting his head as he rested the thin blade of the saw against the bare thigh, about halfway between the end of the stump that remained and Will's instrument. "I know how you prefer the more intimate techniques to the impersonal ones. This way, we both stay close."

Will hadn't considered Hannibal's choice of methods might be influenced by Will's own preferences, or at least the way Hannibal perceived Will's preferences. It felt close to a compromise in their relationship and Will nodded shortly, but there was a small glow warming him that had nothing to do with what they were currently involved in. He knew that Hannibal loved him in his own way, but he hadn't been so sure that love extended to considering what Will might enjoy more in this kind of situation.

The others made noises from their cages across the room. Two of them were staring when Will looked at them, but the third one had his gaze turned away. Will thought he was the one who had tried the hardest to convince them to let him go before Hannibal cut all their tongues out. It didn't matter much at this point. They were all the kind of men who were deserving of a fate worse than death, Hannibal had assured him. Then there was a sharp trembling and more noise, and Will turned his gaze back to what they were doing.

Hannibal sliced carefully and neatly to the bone, all the way around. Blood ran and dripped onto the plastic covered floor through the sturdy wooden slats they were standing on. Will clamped down hard as the man tried to thrash away, screaming and heaving, but the restraints were good and all he had to do was ride with the movement as Hannibal worked, humming to himself as he cut the meat lengthwise and then trimmed it from the bone, section by section. It was not unlike trimming the flesh from the gory pit of a fruit, if one ignored the sharp smells of sweat and blood.

When all that was left was the bone with a little flesh and tendon clinging to it, the major blood vessels tied off, Hannibal paused. "Would you like me to keep this piece and prepare it for carving?" he asked.

Will had tried wood carving before, and a small amount of bone carving from bones he'd found, dried and bleached by the sun, but he had never been all that good at it. He was surprised that Hannibal had even remembered the small, rough pieces. It seemed fitting, however, that if he should take something from the bodies of people he'd had a part in killing, it should be something lasting. "That's…" He cleared his throat. "Yes, thank you, do that. I want something just for me."

Hannibal put the plate with the meat on the side table and reached for the electrical bone saw. The noise it made was drowned out by the raw screams from the man on the table. When the bone was trimmed away to Hannibal's satisfaction, the wound care started, including the electrical cauterization that had made Will flinch the first few times he saw it. Now he cleaned the floor and instruments while Hannibal worked, and then the meat, cutting away the ugly pieces left from the last amputation and weighing what was left.

"It's a little less than your recipe calls for," Will said reluctantly.

Hannibal finished adjusting the IV and locked the door of the fourth cage. "By how much?" he asked.

"Just a little."

Hannibal came up behind Will, pressing against him to peek over his shoulder. "78 grams missing, I see," he said. His voice was low, his breath warm against Will's neck.

I do not get excited by torture, Will told himself. I don't. He breathed deeply. "So… is it still enough?"

"And if it's not, do you propose I get him back out again and cut another slice?" Hannibal laughed and kissed Will's neck behind his ear. Will shivered. The silence from the cages was absolute. "No, I suppose I'll make do with what we have. Come now, put the meat in the cooler and let's go back to the house. Later I will show you what to do with that bone."

Will took another deep breath. "I'd like that," he said. "It seems like a good thing to know."

Hannibal smiled. Will could hear it in his voice, even though he was turned away. "It's an excellent thing to know, Will," he said.


	24. Will's encephalitis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Words: thunderstrike, besiegement, dam
> 
> Season one Hannibal musings about Will.

Hannibal prefers to be subtle in his psychiatric work, pushing his patients in the direction most helpful to them by means of argument and insertion of ideas through various means rather than brute force. Brute force is called for in many other situations, but hardly ever in his therapeutic labors. Most of his patients eventually do violence toward themselves, or others, or both. It is a secret evangelium, to affect so many by spreading the word.

Will Graham is too cunning to move easily with words alone. The infection in his brain is a lucky thing indeed. Without it, Hannibal is convinced his progress would be slow and slight without more drastic measures. The more he and Will interact, the more glimpses Hannibal is given of that yawning capability of violence and darkness just held at bay by Will's remarkable mind. He knows Will has his own moments of insight into Hannibal's nature in turn but it is easy to twist these suspicions back toward Will's own fevered imaginations. He wishes this experiment could last forever.

It must be beautiful in there, in Will's mind. Hannibal is a great aesthete, but despite the depths of his passion for the beauty he creates himself, he must admit to a certain curiosity as to what Will Graham could accomplish if he really put his mind to it. The wonders to behold, just behind that wall of fear and societal expectation. If Hannibal does not act and fails to treat Will's sickness, these wonders hidden by the straining bones of Will's skull will cease to exist one day soon, but there is a possibility they will burst forth just before that. With the right encouragement, he may yet see the imago emerge from the chrysalis, if only to live for a day. To live life to its fullest only for a day or two is a tragedy, but such a beautiful one. It is a bargain, as so much else in life, but just for Hannibal to be able to see it may make the bargain worth it.

And so Hannibal continues, adding small weights to Will's already struggling back. Never enough pressure to make him truly fall – the final straw must come from Will himself. And that which finally cracks him open will allow what slithers forth to shine in glory, and Hannibal will see it and marvel.


	25. Relationship talk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will is drunk, there is a bar fight with slurs and violence, and then a bad attempt at a relationship talk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Words: Raucous, felonious, scarcely

The bar was noisy this late in the night, the customers loud and drunk. Hannibal didn't really want to go inside, and he doubted Will did either, but this was the only place with a pool table for miles and Will had refused to wait for Hannibal to acquire one.

"I'm going to be better than you at something," he'd said. "I'm going to beat the pants off you."

It was a ridiculous notion, since Will was arguably better than Hannibal at several things. Hannibal had even tried to tell him so, but Will had shaken his head, a slow drunken grin growing on his face.

"Your pants!" he repeated.

Hannibal was just a little bit curious about how Will expected to aim anything at all being this drunk, so he didn't stop Will from dragging them outside. He put his foot down on the question of who was going to drive, however. Their eventual death would not be as ugly as an undeliberate car crash.

Inside, Hannibal paid the fee and followed Will, keeping an eye on their surroundings. To his knowledge, Will had never been there, but he led them past the angled bar and into another part of the premises where there were, indeed, four pool tables. One of them was even free, when Will walked up to it, a little bit unsteady on his feet. Hannibal sighed and followed. They stuck out here. The men were wearing tank tops and t-shirts and the women, few as they were, either had very revealing dresses or imitated the male dress code. Their neighbors stared as Will grabbed queues for them and fiddled clumsily with the balls to get them into position.

"Come on!" Will cried. "Let's do this!"

The nearest man was close to laughing openly.

"Are you sure this is the best way to spend the evening?" Hannibal asked, stepping up to the table and taking the pool queue waiting for him.

"What?" Will shouted. "I can't hear you."

Hannibal closed his eyes for a moment. Very well. When he opened them, the man who had been laughing was standing in front of Will, two of his friends behind him.

"What's up, grandpa?" he said, grinning. His friends laughed.

Will had a sly look to him, Hannibal realized. Drunk, yes, but there was more to it. "I!" Will proclaimed, "Am going to beat the pants off this guy!"

The three men glanced at Hannibal, dismissing him from his clothes alone, he suspected. They drifted closer to Will. Hannibal discreetly positioned himself better, both to see and hear, and to be ready.

"His pants, eh?" the leader of the three said. The other two were sniggering. "You queer or what?"

It was clear none of the three were expecting Will's reaction, or the speed of it. Will punched the speaker in the throat, hard and vicious, his lips drawn back from his teeth in something that wasn't a smile, exactly. Hannibal knew it well. He used the shock of the two men standing to hook his queue over their heads and pull them backwards by their throats. The queue broke, but not before they'd stumbled and fallen, shouting in alarm. Their friend was on the floor also, clutching his throat and making wheezing, heaving noises as he tried to roll away.

Hannibal threw the pieces of the queue away. They clattered on the floor. People were staring. He bent down toward the injured man. "You don't want to throw up right now. It will hurt even more." He had no idea if he was heard.

Will was laughing. As Hannibal turned toward him, Will slipped around and kicked the man on the floor in the stomach once, then danced backward as if he were in a boxing ring, tossing his head like a wild stallion. There was a wheezing groan coming from below, but Hannibal only had eyes for Will, so joyous, so beautiful.

Regrettably, the crowd was parting for two large men in identical black t-shirts, and Hannibal moved closer to reel Will back in, pulling him by his shoulder and turning him so that he saw, also. Will's face twisted briefly and Hannibal recognized the impulse to fight them, fight them all, but then Will settled.

"We were just leaving," Hannibal told the bouncers as they came within hearing distance.

The two friends of the man on the floor had recovered and were quick to shout accusations, calling Will a crazy faggot. Hannibal kept his grip on Will's shoulder, prepared for the outburst. The bouncers looked at Will and Hannibal, and then one of them bent down to check on the man on the floor.

"Friendly fight got out of hand, then?" the one still standing asked, directing his question to Hannibal.

"Just so," Hannibal said, keeping his smile free from strain as Will bucked in his grasp. "No permanent injuries made." He glanced again at the man on the floor, assessing. "Mm, yes. And as I said, we're on our way."

The bouncer nodded and Hannibal pulled Will back through the onlookers, who cringed away.

"I'm gonna fucking sue you!" one of the young men shouted after them.

"I doubt it," Hannibal said into Will's ear, his grip still tight around his shoulder. "And if he does, there's barely enough to support anything."

"I wanted more of a fight than that," Will said as they emerged into the night and the parking lot.

Hannibal smiled. "I know, dear. But that's about as much as you may have in this particular way."

Will growled wordlessly, but did not fight as Hannibal turned them back toward the car.

"There are easier ways to do this than baiting foolish young men."

"It's easy enough," Will said shortly.

"So I see." Hannibal unlocked the car. "You're in quite the mood."

They sat for a while in the car, and Hannibal did not turn the ignition.

"If you really want to punch someone and not have to stop, we can find someone for you. All you have to do is ask."

"No," Will said, sighing. "It's passed now. It's not as exciting anymore. Maybe some other time."

Hannibal looked at him. "Not from here, though. Never from here."

"I'm not stupid," Will bit out, perhaps not as over it as he had pretended to be.

Hannibal started the car, then, and turned it toward home. "What is this?" he asked after they'd been silent for some time. "Is this really about some sense of inadequacy?"

Will sighed, his head turned half away. He was watching the lights roll by. "No. I don't know. It was a way to get us there."

"And you think I would protest if you said, 'Hannibal, I want to go fight someone'?"

Will scoffed. "No. But you'd make it all… it would turn into a you thing."

Will was usually more eloquent than this. He must be fairly drunk, after all. "I once had a couple in therapy with me," Hannibal said. Will groaned, but Hannibal ignored him. "Their main problem was obvious. They kept trying to impress each other with how much they were devoted to the other, and it left no room for the actual relationship to merely be."

"And I'm sure you told them that," Will said insincerely.

"Not in so many words, no," Hannibal said. "After a few years, I heard one of them was dead. I never investigated, but I assume he was killed by his spouse."

"Mm, yes," Will said, "that tends to happen."

"I'm not saying..." Hannibal glanced over to see if Will was still looking out his side of the window. He was. "...that our problems are the same."

Will snorted.

"I'm saying that communication is key in any successful marriage."

"Yes, yes," Will said, sighing. "Can we talk about it some other time?"

Hannibal was silent for the rest of the way, pondering.


	26. A Dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal's dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Words: bloodbird, imperishability, calamity
> 
> This one has gore and death and some stuff with eyes, but then it's Hannibal's dream, isn't it?

There is a dripping sound reverberating through this space. It might be a cave, but if so, it consists of several rooms, all vaguely lit by something green reflecting off the water. It behaves like sun shadow, blurring shades of green gently rocking over the water as if there were trees above.

As he takes a step forward, the light shimmers as if it knows him; pulses, and the edge of the water recedes. He takes another, and it draws back again, the sound of profound water falling and hitting something he can sense. The drops are echoing through his whole body, beat after beat, and he knows the source of all that disturbance is somewhere in these caverns. If he searches, he will find it.

As he moves from one dim green room to the other, the water never touches him, even though it looks to be waist deep in places. Instead, the rippling shimmering edge of it pulls away in time for him to move dry over rough stone slabs, here and there dotted with broken pillars marking he knows not what. There are arches upon arches stretching into new rooms in all directions, but when he closes his eyes, he can feel the sound of the dripping pulling him, like a real presence inside his chest. He follows it. He knows he must.

By the time he reaches a wider cave with a higher ceiling, the sensation is deafening. It's how he becomes certain this is the right place. The elusive light is still flickering over the water, keeping its distance against the walls now, leaving him a larger space to walk through. He is suddenly aware that this is alike to a procession – he is coming in supplication to a place where great things are made and unmade. As he approaches that shadowy place in the back of the room, the broken pillars begin to line his way. A few of them stretch further up, reaching toward the ceiling, but when he is tempted to look, the cacophony around him grows even louder, the reverberation inside his chest so strong that he can barely stay upright.

He walks forward, stumbling and breathless.

At the place where the pillars converge, there is something dark and glinting green, pulsing. He knows this is the source of the light, even though it shouldn't reach so far away through all those cave passages. Every pulse sends a flickering like golden electricity off into the walls, the air, the water. It is what keeps this place alive. It might be what keeps _him_ alive, thundering through his body.

As he walks closer, (because he can't stop now, he must see and hear and feel it all) he sees the dark organ is not larger than he is. He is a head taller, and as he struggles up to the natural dais where it is set, he sees he is not alone with this monstrous beautiful thing. At the very top sits a tiny brilliantly red bird, pecking at a thick tube emerging from the pulsing heart. It is tearing through the membrane, drinking of the green substance flowing through it. At first, he is alarmed, but as he comes close enough that he could reach out and touch, he sees the flesh of the thing re-knitting almost instantly, prompting the bird to begin its ceaseless work again. It drinks, and at times it bathes in what comes forth, its black-edged wings beating and shaking off the droplets. If it's blood, it's not of any kind he's seen before, as the fluid evaporates and disappears in tiny gold-green bursts of electricity as soon as it falls off those wings.

Hannibal reaches forward, his whole body shaking with the rhythm of his heart, and as his trembling hand comes close to the bird, it tilts its head and then – it hops onto his finger.

It weighs next to nothing. It stares at him as he holds it there, in front of his face, in wonder. And then it beats its wings, shaking into a blur of black and red, and it dives forward. Hannibal is so stunned he does not raise his other hand to protect himself as the bird drives itself into his right eye, its whole body like a burning spike.

He falls, his mouth open on a silent scream as he feels the thing turn this way and that inside his blind socket, warm fluid running down his face and into his mouth. It is salty, and in his pain and shock he still swallows it, still knows it is not to be wasted.

His line of sight cut off, he does not notice at first that the green light is fading from the room. He feels paralyzed lying on the floor in immense pain, not even able to lift his hands, but as he gasps he feels the huge, shuddering beats all around him are fading, quieting. Instead, there is a beating of wings inside his skull, making what is left of his vision flicker in red and black. The light is going away, and the bird inside him is digging deeper, its beak and claws and wings making a space for itself.

Beyond the sounds of the bird making its nest, there is the sound of water. And then he can feel it, in the shrinking darkness of the room. The water is coming back, rushing in to cover him. To finish it. Then the water, too, is fading and when it closes over his face he is not aware.


	27. Hannibal/Skyrim

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What if Hannibal moved into Dawnstar after all that business with the Dragonborn?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My words were: brood, poisoner, frost bitten

There are several empty houses in Dawnstar when Hannibal comes to town, and the people look at him with suspicion. He is used to it. The work he does leaves its marks and his eyes are dark red, which is not natural for his race in the slightest. When he asks about the house at the very edge of the town, they are even more suspicious.

"What do you offer?" Skald, the Jarl, demands. "Of what use are you to us?"

Hannibal smiles, but not too widely. He knows too wide a smile is disconcerting, coming from him. "I am skilled at distilling and brewing, and I know how to make a fair amount of simples and potions."

"Potions, eh?" The Jarl turns to the man standing at his side. "Go look at the Mortar and Pestle and see in what condition it is."

"Of course," the man says with and leaves with a short bow and a furtive glance at Hannibal.

"Our former alchemist died, you see," the Jarl tells Hannibal, pouring wine for himself. "Frida. After some… dragon business."

Hannibal raises his eyebrows politely.

"I'm sure you had dragon troubles wherever you came from," Skald says with a pointed look. "There aren't many places who escaped that." He drinks some wine and sighs in contentment. He does not offer Hannibal any, but perhaps it's just not to be expected. It's been a long time since Hannibal spent any real time out in the world.

"Of course," Hannibal says, even though the most he ever saw during that time, the Dragonborn time, was a few of them from a distance, their beating wings barely visible, but their voices surprisingly strong.

"Frida. Yes," the Jarl reminds himself. "Do you…" he gestures with his cup, gently, so none of the liquid sloshes over the brim. "Ah… that is to say, is it only beer and potions for you, then? Nothing… more potent?"

Hannibal thinks of the frost spider eggs in his pocket, pillowed by a protective spell in case they hatch before he has a chance to find a suitable environment for them. The two adults he had been extracting poison from were too big to take with him from Riften. Not that there had been an opportunity, with the fire. "I make a fair brandy, I have been told."

The Jarl takes another drink. "Ah, I see, I see." He seems disappointed. No matter. Hannibal is determined to hide his more esoteric brewing better this time. There really had not been much time at all to gather his things before the mob got there.

The manservant returns when they are close to exhausting the polite topics for small talk and the Jarl looks up.

"It is in good shape!" he says, almost out of breath from running. "There are hardly any goods left, of course, but no one has removed any of the furniture. The basement was locked, so I couldn't check that, but the key must be somewhere."

"Excellent, Bulfrek" the Jarl concludes, and the servant beams. The Jarl holds out his hand, and when there is no immediate reaction he continues in a less warm voice: "The key."

Bulfrek fumbles a black key from his pocket and goes to give it to Jarl Skald, but the Jarl gestures impatiently toward Hannibal instead. The key is dropped into Hannibal's hand, Bulfrek's eyes avoiding his.

"The cellar key will be found," the Jarl assures him.

Hannibal turns the house key over in his hand. It feels cold and reassuring. "Oh, I'm sure it will turn up. It might still be in the house. Which one is it again?" Dawnstar was the right choice after all – too emptied out to be able to say no to anyone willing to live there.

"It's right down by the bay," Skald says. "Bulfrek will show you." He reaches for the wine again, to refill his cup.

"Of course," Bulfrek says, although it's clear he takes no joy in this task.

"Thank you," Hannibal says. "I will do my best to open for business within a few weeks." That should be enough time to make sure the basement is well fitted for his frost spiders and any… guests. Also, he has heard rumors that the Dark Brotherhood has a chapter in the vicinity. They would be good contacts, if at all possible. He does not in particular need anyone here killed yet – he knows no one here – but that would be the easiest way to find one of them. So much to do.

He nods toward the Jarl who gestures him away with his cup, content to install a perfect stranger as Dawnstar's alchemist. Hannibal's smile grows wider, and Bulfrek hurries ahead of him. He will do his very best to make the most of the opportunity.


	28. thoughts on mortality and art

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a short thing. My word generator is so Hannibal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Conductory, verbarmaestro, cuerpo  
> (it's just dead bodies and cannibalism, as per normal)

In his youth, in his mind, he'd sweep his hand through the air in a graceful arc, and the body before him would follow the motion and intention, arching beautifully into the exact pose he imagined for it. In reality, it is a decidedly unethereal thing, to pose a body. The impractical fluids, the heavy drape of flesh with no will left to drive it, the demanding restrictions of rigor mortis – all these struggle to prevent grace and beauty while being delighted to relax into grotesque putrescence. Still, the results were worth it.

Maturing through the years, he learned to better embrace the body in decay, the deliberate exposure of bone, of entrails. There lies an almost transcendent beauty in combining fine art with the abrupt evidence of corporeal transformation, the body breaking down, absorbed in part by its surroundings, like a meal breaking down to nourish a body, still carrying that whisper of meaning, of delight.

In his old age, he rarely creates anything but swift, reliable death followed by an afternoon of cooking with worn, familiar recipes. There is no art to be had, and little meaning, but the delight is there. In his mind, the arches of a cathedral glow with flickering candlelight above the table and their feet rest comfortably on the mosaic skull laid in the floor, always.


End file.
